Stacking the Deck (A Betting on Romance Novel Book 2)(2)
The leather of his jacket was smooth and warm under her palm, and she didn’t let go, even though she probably should have, until he settled back in his seat.
“A challenge,” he repeated. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”
“Are you stupid?” she asked, the question blurting out of her.
His eyebrows slashed down and his jaw hardened. “No.”
“Neither am I. I know perfectly well what I’m getting into. Chapter two. Rational numbers.”
He didn’t move, so she opened the thick text and lay it in front of him. Her hand shook slightly as if a current of electricity was coursing through her. “Don’t underestimate me, and I won’t underestimate you. Deal?”
Her heart beat like a wild thing in her chest as she waited for his response. Had she pushed him too far? He’s out of your league, Beacon! the rational part of her screamed. What do you think you're doing? And even though she’d never felt more vulnerable in her life, she did the unthinkable.
She smiled at him.
He watched her a moment, his dark green eyes inscrutable. Then he reached into his backpack, pulled out another Twizzler, and held it toward her like a dare. “Deal.”
CHAPTER TWO
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LIZ BEACON’S TOES DUG into Grant’s bedroom carpet as she watched the single drop of water slither down his baby-smooth chest.
Huh.
Why had she always pictured his chest with more, well, hair? Did he shave it? Wax it? Did men just not have chest hair anymore? And how is it that after more than four months of dating, she’d never actually seen his naked torso?
She stood, staring at Grant’s chest, puzzling over whether he man-sculpted or simply had naturally non-hairy genes, when he dropped the towel he’d been holding around his waist and reached for her.
She inhaled. Oh my.
Swallowing quickly, she sucked in her stomach, arched her back and tried not to tug at the fancy, new, “special-occasion” underwear that seemed designed to cut off the blood supply to her femoral arteries. Not now, she told herself. Do not ruin this beautiful moment!
She hadn’t put in all those long hours working on the merger, fit in extra workouts to tone and smooth, and nursed Grant through that nasty bout of bronchitis for nothing! No! This night would be nothing less than perfect. So perfect, in fact, that in years to come, she and Grant would share a cup of Earl Grey in the Limoges china they’d gotten for their wedding, stare warmly into each other’s eyes and reminisce over the utter romantic perfection of this very night.
And, she deserved this night, didn’t she?
For all the chocolate binges she’d denied herself and youthful indiscretions she’d avoided… For all the nice-enough-but-go-nowhere-in-life guys she’d dated and, let’s be honest, ditched over the years… well, let’s just say it was no accident that she was standing here in pale pink, lace hipsters and matching push-up bra.
Liz Beacon knew where she was headed. She’d known, in fact, since that sweltering August afternoon when she’d stood in her parents’ backyard in an unflattering sea foam green dress and watched her sister parade her pregnancy-enhanced breasts in an ironically white gown found at a local thrift shop. Liz had vowed then and there never to let this kind of careless disaster happen to her.
No. Liz had plans. She’d walked away from Sugar Falls, NH, ten years ago and never looked back. She’d shed her awkward teenage pounds, dysfunctional family and hokey lawn-ornaments roots for a fab career, killer abs and a man every woman would envy.
Yes, she still talked to her mother daily and had a hidden stash of Easter peeps in her underwear drawer. Okay, and maybe they weren’t exactly killer abs, more toned. Okay, smooth. Ish. But none of that mattered now, because she was this close to consummating her relationship with Grant—the man who represented the cherry on top of everything she’d worked to become. Nothing could derail her now.
Not even ill-fitting underwear.
Resolutely ignoring her personal discomfort, Liz smiled at Grant. Dear Grant! From his polished, yet carelessly tousled hairstyle to that elegant, lean physique, it was as if he’d stepped right out of a Ralph Lauren ad and into her life. He was the ideal combination of style, ambition and athleticism. The man played racquetball twice a week and ran daily. Daily!
Swoon! Their children would be gorgeous.
She licked her lips, Grant’s favorite Pinot Grigio still tart on her tongue, and threw herself into the moment. A soft adagio swept the room with romantic violins. True, she would have preferred Norah Jones or even a little Phillip Phillips, but this night was about Grant.
Grant ran his hand up her arm, and Liz closed her eyes. “Your skin is so soft,” he said into her ear. Mmm. It had better be for all she’d shelled out for that seaweed/aloe/vitamin E wrap in anticipation of this night.
Liz marveled over the sliver of picture-perfect Chicago skyline just visible through Grant’s bedroom window. They sank to his bed, kissing, Grant’s hands sliding over her shoulders, her back.
She fingered the sheet behind his head as she debated whether the volume of the stereo was too loud. “Your sheets feel like butter,” she said.
“They’re bamboo.”
“Really? Wow.” She should have known he’d choose eco-friendly bedding material. What an incredible man.